With Teeth
by blakeyel1ner
Summary: They don't know how it started, or when it all began, but most of all they don't know why they do this to each other. Shizaya. Rated for adult themes and language.
1. Once and Never Again

**A/N: I really love these two, such a captivating couple—they hold a special place in my heart because they were what got me into slash back in the days (I feel old).** **It was originally written as a oneshot, hence the shortness. I'm contemplating writing a second chapter from Izaya's point of view but oh man, that'd be a challenge.**

* * *

"Must be my lucky day; we meet again."

Those red eyes piercing me from across the room—I knew them too well.

In the strangest way things happen in this city, that stupid high school trio somehow got involved with everything and Celty tried to sort things out but made things worse; one thing lead to another and we were both under the same roof. Thugs I'd beaten up lay unconscious on the kitchen linoleum down the other end of the corridor. A break-in, a raid. The room was trashed but not so much as our minds.

I trudged through piles of clothing, magazines, documents, all strewn over the carpet—a yakuza's bedroom clutter couldn't have looked less interesting.

"Get lost, Izaya."

"Tough luck, I got here first." He leant an elbow against the dresser and slipped what looked like a confidential piece of document back in its drawer, flashing a wry couple rows of small teeth. "Besides, that's not the way to greet someone who's come all the way from Shinjuku to pay you a visit." The sarcasm was so prevalent in his voice that my blood boiled and I felt like bashing his face in, something I'd failed doing earlier that day. Deck him right in the mouth, knock out all his teeth so he'd never be able to talk in that glib way of his ever again.

Trying to come up with something to say, I took a long drag on my cigarette. Say anything tactless and he twisted your words. I exhaled in his direction, hiding that smug expression for a fleeting second.

"You blew smoke into my face," he laughed.

"Yeah. So?"

"According to popular belief, it apparenty means 'let's fuck'."

"You're sick." And deranged.

"At least I'm not ignorant like you."

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. "You have no fucking idea how strong the urge is to kill you right now."

"You always say that, but I'd like to see you try." A spiteful grin spread across his face. "For once."

The cigarette dropped to my feet and I was already lurching forward to shut him up in the wrongest way possible.

In hindsight I should've just walked out the room, past those bodies lying on the floor, away from the one who made me both fuck and fuck up. I still don't know why the hell I didn't. Instead I smashed my mouth onto his and shoved him up against the wall harder than ever, a headache flowering behind my eyes. For a second I'm at a loss as to what I was doing but he reciprocated; he cocked his head up, eager, drinking me in. Tilted it to the left and got the right angle for lips to mould in sync and teeth to bite down on tongues. He seemed well-practised, made me wonder how many people he'd been with before. The fact that I'd even remotely cared made me shudder with hatred, or disgust, or jealousy, whatever it was.

It was all unravelling too fast—in one smooth motion he straddled me, shedding off his jacket. The bed creaked, the room spun. As he clawed a hand through my hair, pushing my head down on the mattress with the heel of his palm, my scalp stung and I felt the weight of the world come crashing down. The point of no return.

"Actions speak louder than words, Shizu-chan," he whispered through jagged lips.

Something in me snapped. We had sex.

No, it was an easy act of violation. Just this once, and never again. Give him something to be ashamed of to keep him at bay. What the bastard can't stand is indignity, and I convinced myself over and over again that this was the best form of humiliation I could afflict as the bed screeched under our weight and my mind shrieked with lurking fear.

 _Get away, get away before you do yourself in, you retard._

When your body stops listening to your brain, when you're driven solely by this sharp, unnamed hunger inside, that's when you know you're fucked. The police could've been there any minute, one of those gangmen could've regained consciousness and walked in, but none of it mattered to us because I'd lost it completely and Izaya, he was probably enjoying the thrill of it all being the usual freak that he is.

The sheets started to tear and pools of sweat collected in protruding collarbones. He was like a white twig in my bare hands. The thought had never hit me that despite the fact that he looked so thin, felt so small against my body, there was this wiry strength pulsating through him. I wanted so bad to break the bastard, to corrupt him, but it didn't seem to work, because no matter how hard I pushed into him I got no sense of empowerment, and no matter where I sank my teeth into porcelain flesh I received no negative response. Unsatisfying beyond belief.

He murmured through thrusts, pressing his jaw against the side of my face to bite the rim of my ear and I swear I could feel his swollen lips stretching across my cheek into a breathless sneer, his words seeping into my skin.

"You lack control...you know that?"

He always asked rhetorical questions. I hated it, because I never could come up with an equally biting remark. All I could do was shut him up physically with a kiss, my mind too paralysed to even speak.

It would've been so easy to just snap his neck.

But I never did. What I was doing instead was wrong, so completely out of control and I kept falling, falling repeatedly into crimson pooling beneath hooded lids, down what seemed like a bottomless pit, feeling a rush of vertigo shooting up my spine. It wasn't until I saw purple fingerprints caging his arms afterwards that I realised I'd been grasping him the whole way through in blind desperation.

Black streaks of hair stuck to his sweaty face as he spasmed; I spiralled down release. And then he was sprawled out in front of me, legs open, eyes shut. It was over.

Dawn broke through blind slats and reality kicked in. He dipped down reaching for his things, flickblade first, noncommittal. I shuddered in the stillness of the room, lit a cigarette, hid from his gaze in the midst of smoke. It wasn't long before we were fully clothed again, walking down the same street but in opposite directions; back to our own lives, our own cities.

"Till next time, Shizu-chan."

Before we parted, he took my sunglasses as a crow would shiny pieces of scrap; I should've known better. A twisted smile flashed before my eyes as daybreak stung and I squinted in reflex action.

"Wh—hey!"

A blink of an eye and he'd gone. Not a trace of him in sight, save for that demeaning smile burnt in the back of my mind. If he thought I was going to come rampaging after him to get them back, he was so damn wrong. With my sunglasses gone, I rubbed my eyes and cursed, turning on my heel to start the long trek back to my apartment, stopping now and again in front my own reflection in windows to tighten the bowtie around my collar in a paranoid attempt to hide fresh claw marks and lovebites. I could still feel his breath moist on my lips, hear those words taunting me on never-ending repeat.

 _You lack control. You lack control. You lack control._

It'd been nothing more than a careless act of self-destruction. I'd fucked up big time. It was just this once, never again, or so I'd thought—just like that time in high shool when I lit my first cigarette and never thought about the consequences of an addiction. But who cares? Because as much as I hated it I knew it was going to happen again.

In the end he always got his way.

* * *

 **Let me know what you think! One-liners, constructive criticism, vending machines, they're all welcome.**


	2. Breed

**A/N: I've decided to write a second chapter (perhaps too little too late). I'm sorry I couldn't do this soonER but the whole idea came to my head just a few days ago. Although this story is a character study I'm not sure if it's done yet, I feel like I could wrap it up with another couple of chapters. Let me know what you think.**

 **Also a big shout-out to the people who took the time to review the previous chapter (if any of you are still here); without you guys this wouldn't've been possible. So thank you. You're a gem. X**

* . * . *

* * *

Shizzy wouldn't remember it, but I can still vaguely recall our first time. He was pretty drunk. I was just curious.

It certainly wasn't _my_ first time (I'd experimented with both men and women before), but it might've been his. When I look back now I can see traces of awkwardness, little signs here and there that one displays when doing anything for the first time. He has changed since then, though lack of skill show up from time to time (he relies entirely on brute force and carnal instinct, never technique). And I may have changed too, because in the end I am human, and there is nothing humans are incapable of getting used to.

It was some day in October, or November, when the trees were scattering shades of red ("They're balding! Just like Dad," Shinra would say.) I spotted that tall silhouette staggering in an alleyway, North Ikebukuro, where whores and left wing radicals murmured in the night—bums and alcoholics were usually passed out by this hour. The North is the dingiest part of the district. People get stabbed, raped, occasionally shot—those sane enough would steer clear of these damned streets even in broad daylight. None of it mattered to the idiot brute though, no matter how blackout-drunk he was, no one stood a chance against him and he knew it. Miserable, really, that he sometimes did this—drank like an alcoholic fish (to forget the fortune he owed the Toshima Ward Council for vandalism, I'm guessing). I'd linger just a few steps behind him, only for a while, long enough for my own amusement and short enough for him not to take notice of my presence. I knew best that alcohol numbed his senses.

They say the first time is always mediocre. Hell, the first time with Shizzy was trauma-inducing. The result of underestimating this intoxicated animal took the form of acidic kisses and grazed knees.

It didn't take long to get to the actual intercourse, I admit, because I'd rushed the foreplay. Gagging on cock isn't exactly my favourite thing to do (especially when it's your worst enemy you're trying to please). If I hadn't given him enough stimulation with my teeth and rings, I would've ended up sucking him for hours, because normal human contact fails to get that monstrosity revved up. To this day he is the only living being I've practised teething on. I guided him inside because he was too drunk to know what the fuck he was doing, and held my breath when dull pains started stabbing me in the ass. His breath was hot and jagged in my ear, erratic like his temper, as he rocked back and forth.

"Mistaking me for one of the whores around here, Shizzy?"

"No?" he slurred, "but you fuck like one."

"I'm flattered, really." I spat the taste of nicotine and stomach acid onto the ground, wincing. "You have me in a death grip, so I might as well enjoy the ride, right?"

"Shut up," he gasped. "I'm gonna come."

He slammed hard against me, knees buckling and slumping forward, letting out a morbid groan. Just when I thought it was finally over, he convulsed again and spewed out his vodka for the third time that night, like a flipping fish coughing out its last breath on land. A drunken bum was laughing not so far away.

"Will you get the fuck _off_ , you rapist." Shoving the whole weight of his body off wasn't as easy as usual; he'd gone limp, face buried in the crook of my neck. I stood against the concrete wall shivering like a wet leaf, covered in vomit and come. He'd passed out bang smack into a pile of garbage with saliva trailing down the side of his face to the gutter below (and this would be the first and last time to see him unconscious). It would've been the perfect moment to kill him if it weren't for the sorry state I was in. I'd have rather killed for a shower, to be honest.

"Moron!"

He responded with a guttural splutter. I kicked him twice in the rear (added a third when I realised he'd made me miss the last train to Shinjuku), and scampered out onto the main road to catch a cab home. The taxi driver grimaced and gagged through the whole ride, but I didn't feel sorry in the least because I gave him a big, fat tip.

* . * . *

Shinra once told me an old Japanese proverb: what happens once will never happen again, but what happens twice will happen three times. Or four, or five. Maybe even six. I'd stopped counting from seven onwards.

It had become something of a ritual between us both. A ritual, for it was frequent, but not frequent enough to qualify as a habit.

At least the spewing had been a one-off thing.

I had something to taunt him about. I'd tell him stories of our _romantic_ first night together and he'd shake his head in strong denial.

"It doesn't count if I don't remember it. You fabricated the whole thing."

"You never believe me, Shizzy, it saddens me so," I purred, lips curling into a smile.

"That's 'cause you're a _liar_ ," he snarled. "Son of a bitch."

"What you mean to say is that it doesn't count as sex because it was _without consent_. It's called rape. You raped the best knowledge broker in Tokyo." Jabbing a finger in his chest to every syllable, I leant in, catching the familiar scent of milk and tobacco. His chest was as hard as steel; only after orgasm could you feel his chest plate beneath relaxed muscles. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Don't fucking touch me." Lines of disgust were etched between his brows. "It wouldn't surprise me if it'd actually been _you_ taking advantage of _me_ in a drunken state."

"You're blaming me again, Shizzy." I gave him an accusatory look and shook my head, flicking open my switchblade as I shrugged. "When will you ever learn, you brute? Take responsibility for your actions."

Knives come in handy when you need to cut open flesh, or, at times, bow-ties.

"It always counts."

Physical contact can take many forms. Usually with him it's a cat-and-mouse game; I'd parry whatever object he threw at me with grace while he went on forever trying to chase me out of "his" territory, Ikebukuro. Fights like these fuel hate, but so does what goes on behind closed doors (and at times outdoors). With him sex is not an act of "making love" as they all say, but an act of breeding hate. We breed till we get sick enough of each other to last the next few weeks without contact, till our bodies start aching and can take no more, till the hate becomes all too overwhelming. I think of it as an extreme form of making sure things will always stay the same; a reminder that he hates me and I hate him, no matter how close we get.

Sometimes it'd be behind an abandoned apartment building or in a desolate alleyway. In the park, behind the toilets. Shizzy's one room apartment (that only just passes as a shack). I'd even once been so desperate as to use a quickie crib (paid for afterwards with Shizzy's card, this without consent).

Rooftops.

My legs slung over lean shoulders of the vulture savaging my neck raw. My feet pointing heavenwards, head hanging hellbound from the edge of the fence. Heights serve as a catalyst to orgasm. Shizzy would arch his back above me and lurch forward as he comes; the fence rattles and for a second it feels as if we're both headed down. We tumble down into nothingness, then float. That out-of-body experience alone surpasses every kind of hit you could think of from any kind of substance. He is the strongest drug out there that I know of—the delirium fueled by adrenaline highs and the comedown that comes crashing down soon after is comparable to almost nothing. Fucking a prospective urban legend had its perks every now and then.

* . * . *

Whenever I come back from working out, Namie would always comment on the scars etched all over my body.

"It's sad to think how you're always the one left with scars," she'd say quietly, knowingly, "and he gets away with nothing."

I'd laugh at her. "I don't need your pity."

* . * . *

And now I check myself out in the mirror; a mirror that he clearly punched in a fit, because I see myself fragmented into a dozen jagged pieces. I count the newest minor injuries. One, two, three...and another along my collarbone. Four. Not bad for a rough night spent. They won't be visible if I keep my jacket on. I touch the sandpaper texture of my chin as I walk out the bathroom, making a mental note to shave as soon as I get home for my client meeting.

"Here's your jacket."

He is fully clothed now, wearing a ratty T shirt and sweatpants, hair still a little damp around the collar. He's cleaned the room while I was taking a shower; clothes that trailed to the bed indicatory of a heated romp are gone, along with the condom wrappers that were scattered on the tatami mat.

When I don't respond he lets out an irritated sigh, annoyed by the heavy smell of sex hanging in the air and the unsettling silence between us. He shoves the jacket against my chest. I smirk.

"So I'm not allowed to stay?"

He stares at me for what seems like a long time, then turns away, shaking his head with a "tch". He flops carelessly back on the bed (we ruined the bedsheets and half the mattress is visible) and lights an American Spirit.

"I just took a shower, goddamnit." I push open the curtains, sliding the window open as I clamber onto the windowsill.

"Suck it up, flea. My place, my rules. Shut the window. Close the curtains too."

"No. Mind if I bum a cigarette?"

He gives me a long, hard look through damp tufts of peroxide blond. "You don't smoke."

"True. I don't smoke. But I _can_."

"Quit it with the fucking wordplay," he mumbles, but tosses me one anyway, and reaches out with a lighter burning at the end of his arm. I lean in. For a few minutes it's silent; just us smoking quietly, listening to the crows awaken at dawn. It is still dark, but light enough to make out the powerlines slashing the sky. The digital clock blinking beside his bed reads 5AM, 4 MAY. I tell myself that I've turned 21 (again), though I have been for God knows how long. When he attempts to light his second cigarette, I hand him mine, unfinished but still burning strong. "I've had enough."

"I've had enough of _you_ , jerk," he sighs when he sees me eyeing his new pair of sunglasses lying on the floor.

"You got the same model. Again. What a bore," I say flatly, eyelids hooded deliberately. "You've been wearing the same one for five years now."

"Funny how _every time_ they go missing it's when I see you." He throws me an accusatory glance and proceeds to finish off the cigarette I handed him—probably because he's broke and would rather suck on the same filter I did than waste it. "Always stealing my shit."

I shrug. "You know where I live."

He sits on his bed, a pile of damp blond scruff and rags and smoke, perhaps at a loss for words. When he speaks he is dead calm, as if stating a cold, hard fact. No usual tone of anger in his voice—just a steady, quiet anguish. His voice cracks and I can't tell whether it's from the cigarette smoke scathing his throat. "I really hate you, Izaya. So much that it drives me mad. You fuck me up. Sometimes I can't even think straight, you know."

Knives aren't exactly my weapon of choice when I want to inflict physical wounds on Shizzy; they don't stand a chance against his iron build. It's with teeth I tear open the softest part of his flesh.

I grab him by the shoulders and swoop down, my mouth curving against his. Canines sink into his lips as I snap it shut; he winces in my grip, just like the child I was introduced to at Raijin ten years ago. When I pull away I give him a half-hearted leer.

"Did that hurt?"

"A little," he admits sheepishly. A thread of blood trickles down his chin. Shizzy never lies. It hurts, but not as much as the regret and confusion that probably grips him every time after we have sex.

"Good," I say, straddling him. "And now, time for round two."

Shizzy isn't exactly a morning person, and I know it might take a lot more pestering than usual to get him involved. He glares at me when I pull at his waistband, but sticks his arm out to the side to stub out his cigarette as I push him down onto the bed. There are raw cuts slashing his throat where I scratched him just a few hours ago, but with time they'll probably heal without a trace. Till then he'll have to make up his own pathetic excuses to escape Tom's interrogation. I dig the heels of my hands into his shoulders and he digs his fingertips into my hipbones. The feelings are mutual.

Nevertheless he grumbles as he starts unzipping my trousers. "I just took a shower, damn it, flea."

I laugh, and let him slide off my belt. "Suck it up, brute."


End file.
